Treason by Newt Gingrich, Pete Earley

her drink and candy next to the bed. She ran her fingers through Jennifer’s long auburn hair, soothing her. She could feel the bumps on the girl’s skull, reminders of the repeated surgeries needed to remove shrapnel from the car bomb that had destroyed the front half of the Land Rover and instantly killed Jennifer’s mother and brother.
    Jennifer chewed the candy bar quickly, pausing only to take slurps of milk through a straw. “You liked my daddy, didn’t you?” the teenager asked.
    â€œYes, I’ve told you this before,” Brooke replied. “Your daddy and I were in Mogadishu, where I was a military attaché. Our embassy was overrun by an evil man named Abdul Hafeez. Everyone but your daddy and I were taken hostage. He saved my life when a different bad man was about to hurt me with a knife. Your daddy shot him. He was a hero.”
    â€œI like hearing the story. But then a bad man hurt my daddy.”
    â€œYes, he did.”
    â€œWas it Half-sneeze?” Jennifer asked, mispronouncing Abdul Hafeez’s name.
    â€œNo. It was a much worse man who always wears a mask. We don’t know his real name so people call him ‘The Falcon.’”
    â€œHe sent someone to kill my daddy in Germany. In a hospital.”
    â€œYes. You remember. Good.”
    â€œWhy do they call him ‘The Falcon’?”
    â€œBecause he’s like a bird flying above all of us where we can’t see him until he does something bad.”
    Brooke hadn’t hidden the truth from the teen. During Jennifer’s therapy and recovery, Brooke had answered her questions without sugarcoating no matter what she’d asked. Jennifer’s psychiatrist and therapist had agreed it was the right course. But Brooke wasn’t certain if talking about the Falcon at this moment was a good idea.
    â€œWe don’t have to worry about the Falcon,” she said, “because I’m a Marine. And Marines stick together. You pick a fight with a Marine and every Marine out there will fight with you. That means every Marine is watching over us. Marines are like our brothers and sisters.”
    â€œSergeant Miles is a Marine,” Jennifer said, referring to the Crow Indian who’d helped Brooke thwart a suicide bombing in Somalia. “Is Sergeant Miles your brother?” Jennifer asked. She began giggling.
    Jennifer was childlike in many ways. She often missed social cues because of her traumatic brain injury. But at other times, she was no different from any other teenage girl. The doctors said it had to do with which parts of her frontal lobe had been damaged and how those parts were gradually rewiring themselves.
    â€œYou know Sergeant Miles is a Marine,” Brooke said, “and you know he’s a good friend of mine and yours.”
    â€œI know, but he’s not your brother. I think you love him.”
    â€œWhat’s this about?” Brooke asked. “Are you jerking my chain?”
    She could tell from the puzzled look on Jennifer’s face that the teen didn’t understand the metaphor.
    â€œAre you teasing me?” Brooke explained.
    â€œI was just wondering if you and Sergeant Miles were going to get married one day. You’re young and you’re pretty.”
    â€œWell, thank you, but I’m not that young. I’m almost thirty now and being pretty doesn’t have anything to do with getting married. It has to do with being in love.”
    â€œI know you love him and I know he loves you.”
    â€œWho’s putting these thoughts into your head? I’m a major in the Marine Corps and he’s a sergeant. We’d both get into big trouble if we started dating. I think it’s time for you to get back to sleep and quit asking me questions about Sergeant Miles.”
    â€œIt would be nice if you married him,” Jennifer said, handing Brooke the empty milk carton and candy bar wrapper that she was holding as she curled